


Black Skeletons

by izarsa



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Romance, Sad, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 20:12:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12328032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izarsa/pseuds/izarsa
Summary: In the wake of her father's death, Haru Okumura does some soul-searching.





	Black Skeletons

It’s a cold day today. The trees look like black skeletons, branches knocking against one another like wind chimes in whatever grey breeze the horizon has brought. 

I’m sitting on one of the granite steps in the courtyard, behind the tower. I don’t want to be here, but I don’t really have anywhere else to go. I’ve already watered the vegetables on the school roof, although I’m not sure if they’ll survive the winter- they were brown and withering. I’d tried reading, but every sentence had just drifted off the page, whispering that he’s dead and I don’t know how I feel about that.

My father wasn’t a good man, or a kind man, or even a particularly smart man. He gave me life and then he set to work on taking everything else away, from the ragged remains of my self-worth to the brief moments of light that peppered my childhood. Eventually he’d even try to give my virginity away- no- sell it. 

Even now, mere weeks after his passing, when I thought I’d be missing all the good in him, the image of my father is one of moving black fury and control, like a nightmare of an anvil pressing down on my ribs. 

People and friends give their condolences, and I suppose somewhere I feel sadness, but mostly I just can’t understand him. He was a man who saw only the buildings and streets, a man who never once stopped to let the rage of the world’s churning machine fall away into the softness of the sky.

I get up. The air moving around me feels like an ice flow as I make my way out of the courtyard and onto the street. I’m not sure where I’m going, but I know I’m not staying here.

On the street people hustle about, black and grey trenchcoats clasped tight to their breasts, tall boots shaded in the dim sun. I think for a moment that I might stand out in my pink coat, but nobody is looking at me. Then I think that maybe none of them care what I look like or what I do- and that I could walk ten blocks and then ten more, catch a train, a ferry, and end up somewhere I’d never been and nobody would stop me or talk to me the whole way there. 

I think about doing it, just for a moment. But then I realize that I would miss him.

I pull out my phone and take off my right hand glove with my teeth, and send a text to Akira. He’s not the type of guy who’s going to try and cheer me up, and that’s what I think I might like about him the most. He’s the type of guy who’d just feel my feelings  _ with _ me- help me carry the weight, not convince me it wasn’t there.

_ “Are you there?”  _ I ask.

He replies within a few moments.  _ “Yeah, you okay?” _

_ “I’m okay. Can we get some coffee?” _

_ “Sure. Come over, I’ll make us some.” _

The walk to LeBlanc is freezing and long. I don’t feel like taking the train. The cold is pressing and urgent, like I’m walking headfirst into something primal. 

When I get there, I knock softly on the door. 

It swings inwards and I can feel the warmth coming off the auburn hardwood in waves. He stands at the door, his dark glasses framing the white cloudy sky, wearing a long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants. His hair is messy and soft, cascading onto itself in layers. 

“Hi,” he says simply.

I come inside. The cold stops at the door frame. 

I put my pink coat over the barstool and sit down. The air is dusty.

“Do you want some coffee?”

I nod. “I do.”

He pours me a cup. I take it and clasp it tightly in my hands. It’s warm, like this place.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks me.

“I don’t know,” I answer. “I’m not sure there’s anything to say.”

“Well,” he ponders. “Maybe we should just watch TV.”

I nod. I can feel tiny icicles melting at the corners of my eyelids. I blink them away.

We go upstairs. Each wooden step creaks. It reminds me of an old museum. I’ve never spent too much time in a place like this. Everywhere I’d ever lived was made of marble and granite. 

_ Marble and granite.  _ I think about the words, rolling them back and forth in my head. Testing them. I think about the marble steps that lead up to my bedroom. They’re pristine and white. Past the doorframe is my big room, sprawling and open. Not enough things to fill it with. Like I’m sleeping in a cave.

By the time we’re in the attic the icicles have melted and I’m crying. 

He looks at me and says  _ Hey, hey, hey… _ but the tears just keep falling. I don’t care what they say in biology. They’re coming from some deep black ravine between my ribs. I feel them come up like rivulets.

I sit on the bed and shield my face. I should’ve let this out before I got here. I cry better alone.

He sits down next to me and puts his hand around my shoulder. I fall into him like my muscles are sick of holding themselves up. He holds me and I feel his hands on my back.

Outside the window I can see how the white sky shines over the buildings with malice. Below it, people scatter and move like a tide of ants in the ocean. The snow starts falling like seafoam. In five years, I’ll be working to put food on the table. I’ll be inside one of those buildings. I’ve already spent my life inside one of those buildings. I don’t want to go back.

I want to stay in a dusty attic.

I pull back and kiss his lips. They’re soft and he kisses me back. He is warm like coffee.

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
